


Your Idea Of Fun

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, First Time, Kink Meme, M/M, Sequel, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:36:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Treasure this moment, because you may never hear me utter these words again: I’ve no idea what I’m doing.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Idea Of Fun

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [所谓有趣(原标题：Your Idea Of Fun )](https://archiveofourown.org/works/332188) by [Miss_Octopus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Octopus/pseuds/Miss_Octopus)



  
A/N: Originally this and  _ Twenty-Seven Days  _ were going to be one story, but I was too lazy to write the bridge between them. (It would probably involve a lot of aaaaangst and UST and I’m no good at writing that stuff.) You don’t need to read Twenty-Seven Days to understand this fic, but there are references to it here.  


This story is a  [ fill for a prompt  ](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=31617111#t31617111) on the kinkmeme. Anon asked for John teaching virgin!Sherlock how to top him.

 

 

  
It wasn’t until John had Sherlock stretched out before him, not a stitch of clothing between them, his hand grasping Sherlock’s stiff prick, that he suddenly exclaimed, “Oh! I just realised, we haven’t even kissed yet!”

They had been too preoccupied with getting each other naked, getting in this bed, exploring each other’s skin. “Is that an important part of this?” Sherlock asked.

This question gave John pause. He’d never thought of kissing in terms of “importance.” Knowing that Sherlock was expecting him to be authoritative and knowledgeable, he said, “It’s as important as you want it to be. Kissing’s just like everything else. Some people aren’t into it.”

For a long moment, each of them continued to gaze upon the other, eyes skating over each other’s bodies. Whilst they’d been talking, Sherlock’s cock had gone soft. When he noticed what had happened, and that John was looking at it, Sherlock half covered it with his hand. He said, “I hope you’re not disappointed about me losing my erection.”

“It’s fine, I understand. You spent eighteen years training yourself not to have them. But obviously you’re still able. We’ll just see how things go.” He cleared his throat. “Reckon one of us could get started, with the, er, with the kissing.” He shifted himself up so that he and Sherlock were eye to eye, then slid one arm around him to pull his middle close, as their mouths met.

John did not know if Sherlock knew, by name, the phenomenon of mucocutaneous junction, whereby one set of mucous membranes are stimulated, and other mucous membrane tissues respond in sympathy, engorging with blood, becoming erect, secreting fluids, or all three. But even one who did not know the term would be familiar with the process. As John gently pressed his tongue between Sherlock’s lips and teeth, he reached down to feel Sherlock’s erection returning, fluid now leaking from the tip. His nipples were hard, as well, and he strained for more as John caressed them with his fingertips. 

Sherlock tried to return the favour, putting his hands wherever they would not interfere with what John’s were doing. Each touch brought shiver after shiver. John told himself to enjoy it, to wring every damp, shuddering drop of pleasure out of it, because it might never happen again, and even if it did, it would never be like the first time. It was fun to teach a new partner about the places you liked to be touched, but that was nothing compared to the unexpected moments when a new partner taught _you_.

Once Sherlock had the mechanics of kissing sussed, he proceeded to make his way down John’s body, collecting data as he went. Very sensitive in the spot where chin and jaw met ear. Left nipple unresponsive, likely due to nerve damage from battle injury. Right nipple too sensitive for anything but the slightest stimulation. Quivering of abdominal muscles when light kisses applied to belly and iliac crest. 

“Alright, I get what’s going on,” John said as he watched Sherlock work, “but are you _enjoying_ yourself?”

“Learning is always enjoyable,” Sherlock said, and continued down. John’s cock had been brushing Sherlock’s neck and chin, whilst his lips had explored John’s belly button and the soft trail of hair that spread from it in either direction. But John’s reaction was much sharper when Sherlock touched his lips to it. With one elbow propping himself and the other hand on John’s thigh, Sherlock gave the shaft the lightest brush of a kiss. But with no hand to hold it steady, he was simultaneously pushing it away, so he nudged it with his cheek until it pressed against John’s belly, and administered firm, hands-free kisses up and down the length of it, including the moist, flushed head. 

When he paused to speak, Sherlock did not move his head, so his lips continued to caress it. “Treasure this moment,” he said, “because you may never hear me utter these words again: I’ve no idea what I’m doing.”

With one arm flung over his eyes, John panted, “Then I can’t even imagine the state I’d be in if you _did_ know what you were doing.”

Sherlock’s tongue emerged from between his slightly parted lips, and touched the place where John’s foreskin was stretched around the head of his cock.

“No, you need to -- I’m serious, if you don’t stop, this will be over in one minute,” John said.

Sherlock sat up, but didn’t want to part with John’s cock entirely, just yet, so he laid a warm hand on it. “Over for the night? Couldn’t you go again, if you had some rest?”

“Oh, Jesus.” John lifted his arm so he could peek out at Sherlock from underneath it. “I finally get a break from three weeks of racing through the streets of London on foot, leaping across rooftops, being hurled off bridges, and taking beatings from thugs...and now you want me to come twice in one night.”

“Actually, I was wondering if three times might be possible. There are a lot of things I’d like to try out.”

“Ugh, Sherlock, you are going to _kill_ me. I am an old man.”

“Don’t talk like that, John, it upsets me.”

John sat up, putting his weight on his elbows. “Well then don’t talk about me trying to come three times in a night; that upsets _me_!”

“So does that mean I’ll have to choose just one thing?”

After considering this for a moment, John said, “The short answer is, yes.”

Sherlock needed no time to make a decision. “Then, intercourse!”

Never before had someone uttered that clinical term with such glee. John’s head fell back on the pillow. “No baby steps for you,” he sighed.

“Please John, I’ve heard it’s a lot of fun.”

“Hmm, let’s see, drains you of all energy, messy and explosive, potentially dangerous, creeps other people out if they see you doing it, can leave you sore and aching and wondering what the hell you just did...yes, that is, in fact, consistent with your idea of fun.”

Sherlock crawled his way up John’s body. Between kisses to John’s face and throat, he said, “So how do we start?”

“Well, I reckon you’ll first have to decide whether you want to be on the top or the bottom.”

“Which are you?” More kisses. “Top or bottom?”

“I do both,” John shrugged.

“Which is better?”

“That’s something you’ll have to decide for yourself. Some people swear by one or the other.”

No more kisses now. Sherlock was growing impatient. “But which do you _prefer_?”

“If I had to choose, I’d say I prefer to bottom.”

“Then I’ll be the top.”

“That’s fine, but it will take...You’ll have to listen to what I say and do as you’re told. A top is more likely to hurt the other person if they don’t do it properly.”

“I should be the bottom, then. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me, if you follow my instruction. It just takes a lot of patience.” He looked Sherlock up and down, taut and wiry and excited as he was. Who could say no to six feet and one-half inches of boundless energy and insatiable curiosity? “Well, if we’re going to do this, let’s do it, then.  Here’s lesson one.”

John opened the bedside table draw and pulled out a pump-bottle full of a clear, viscous fluid. Sherlock examined the bottle: it was a water-based “personal lubricant.” Sherlock recognised “personal” as one of those marketing terms that meant “this goes on, or in, your genitals.”

As he examined the label for potential irritants, John said, “This stuff is indispensable. Well, I mean, literally it is dispensable, you just push this top part to dispense it. But metaphorically, it’s -- oh, listen to me, I’m rambling.”

“I understand. We can’t do without it.”

“Exactly. Nothing goes in the back door without this on.”

“So I just put this on my--”

“Not quite yet. Before we can get to the main event, you have to use your fingers to prepare me. You start with one, and -- actually, you start by showing me your fingernails.”

Sherlock held out both his hands, palms down, for John to inspect. His nails were short and smooth and clean; no hangnails, no chewed bits of flesh at the corners.

“Of course. Why would I have had any doubts,” John said. “Probably solved a case for a manicurist who now keeps you in cuticle cream.” He handed the bottle back to Sherlock and reclined, parting his thighs. “You understand what you need to do,” he said. “I’m going to lie here on my back, and I’ll keep an eye on you, alright?”

“How do I know where I’m supposed to go?”

John took Sherlock’s hand -- oh God, those long fingers, he had no doubt they would treat him right -- and guided it to the spot behind his balls. “Just put your fingers down here. You’ll feel it.”

With two slick fingers extended, Sherlock pushed down into the warm crease. “Oh.” He shivered at the sudden realisation of what he was doing. “I can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you.”

“You haven’t even done it yet.” John took Sherlock’s hand again. “Feel right there? That’s where you push. _Gently_.”

Sherlock pressed the hard ring of muscle. It slammed shut at his touch, despite John’s desire. “Sorry. I’m trying not to,” he said. “It’s just...been a while.” He laid flat on his back and stared at the ceiling. “Okay, you push, I push.”

Sherlock tried again, and this time his finger breached and slid right in. He pressed against the spasming muscle with the pad of his finger. “John, that’s so tight.” Sherlock sounded urgently concerned. “How is my prick going to go up there?”

“It will.” 

John continued to talk Sherlock through it, helped him get a second finger inside, and demonstrated how and where to crook them to touch his prostate.

“You -- _oh_ \-- you feel that little bump right there?”

“Yes.”

“Your goal -- _stop touching it stop touching it so I can think_ \-- your goal is to touch that as much as possible.”

“Except when you’re trying to think.”

“Yes. Now, you don’t have to stab at it. A little goes a long way.”

Sherlock gently massaged the gland, watching John’s face for feedback. He was not disappointed. “Like this?”

“Oh God, yeah.”

John was sort of…wriggling, now. Watching him made Sherlock want to wriggle, as well. “How will I know when you’re ready for intercourse?” Sherlock asked.

John was ready right then, but he was enjoying things as they were, at the moment. “I’ll tell you.”

“What if I want to decide that you’re ready?”

Though he was already immensely turned on, this thought made John even more hot and bothered. One day, a more confident and experienced Sherlock would tease him, ignoring his pleas for fulfillment, drawing out his pleasure until it nearly became agony. John tried not to think too hard about that day, lest he erupt right then and there. For now, he said, “When I’m ready this time, I’ll tell you, and you can read all the indicators then, and keep that for future reference.”

Despite the long minutes Sherlock spent milking John’s prostate, the novelty of the pleasure did not seem to ebb. John’s cock, untouched, bobbed and twitched, and a thick, continuous strand of pre-ejaculate oozed out and touched his belly. Sherlock could see it coming out, and watched carefully, trying to estimate the volume of production. The noises John uttered made it difficult to concentrate, though. Sherlock said, “Are you ready?”

John had to laugh at such an obvious question. “Yeah, I’m really fucking ready.”

Sherlock noted the rest of the physical signs. John had spread his thighs wide, and they were tense and trembling. Between them, John’s balls were tight against his body. His eyes had rolled back. Sherlock examined his cock: What had been a barely visible slit at the tip now was now pouting slightly open, and fluid was still coming readily. It seemed like John’s entire body was getting him ready to have an orgasm.

Meanwhile, Sherlock’s own cock was soft and quiescent. He muttered an apology when John noticed it.

“No worries.” Without Sherlock’s fingers in him, John felt much less fuzzy and light-headed. He patted the mattress beside him. “I’ll see what I can do about it. Lie down on your side, here.”

John rolled so that he and Sherlock faced each other, and then manoeuvred himself so that he could rest his head on one arm while slipping Sherlock into his mouth. He easily took in all of the soft cock, and suckled gently, using his tongue to probe beneath the foreskin.

“John, that’s -- _oh_.”

With the head still against his bottom lip, John said, “You’re not trying to will it away now, are you?”

“No. I want it. I want it to be hard, it felt good when it was hard.”

John could feel it getting bigger in his mouth now, growing long and plump until he had to let a little out, and work what he could no longer fit in his mouth with his hand. He squeezed the shaft tight and slow as he continued to mouth the head. He kept his pace even and languid, drawing out every stroke of his fingers and tongue, careful not to rush and make Sherlock feel that there was any pressure on him. And before long, he had a glorious, diamond-hard cock in his hand.

John pulled away and propped himself on one elbow, still gripping the base. He looked up; Sherlock had his eyes closed. “Have a look at it,” John said. “That is a _marvelous_ erection.”

Sherlock gaped at it, hardly believing that it was even there, let alone in John’s hand. “So we’re ready now? How do we arrange ourselves?”

“That’s up to you,” said John. 

“But I don’t know what the optimal arrangement is.”

“There’s no one optimal arrangement. Just close your eyes and think: What do you want it to be like? Do you want to lie back while I ride you? Do you want to be able to look into my eyes? Do you want to just grab at me and pound away?”

After some thought, Sherlock said, “I want...as much of you as possible to be touching as much of me as possible.”

“Then we should spoon.” John pumped a handful of lube and spread it on Sherlock’s cock, using the same slow, tight stroke. Then he turned onto his side, away from Sherlock, and said, “Just come up behind me, here.”

Sherlock pressed himself to John. John was right; they could touch from head to toe this way. One arm was sort of trapped, but with the other Sherlock could continue to explore John’s body, and anything he couldn’t reach with his arm, he could nuzzle with his chin and neck or prod with his toes.

John said, “There’s almost always a bit of pain here, and I may make noise where it’ll be difficult to tell if you’re causing pain or pleasure. If you don’t hear me say ‘stop,’ then just keep doing whatever you’re doing.”

With his free hand, Sherlock held his cock just behind the head and put it between the cheeks of John’s arse. He slid it up and down blindly until he found where he was supposed to be going. Then he looked down at himself, where he was all set to join with John’s body. “Do I just push it in?”

“Yes, just push it in.”

“How far do I push it in before I should pull it out again?”

“Just do what comes naturally.”

“This doesn’t come naturally, that’s the problem!”

“When you get in there, you’ll know what to do.”

“But I don’t want to hurt you!”

“Sherlock, stop fussing about every little thing! I know what I said earlier, but just calm down. This is a very forgiving position. Your cock is going to go in me nice and easy.”

So Sherlock pushed. And once again John was right; it was slow going but it was smooth. He pushed some more, a few nervous, incomplete strokes, and then John pushed back. And continued to push back, taking a few inches of cock at a time, well after Sherlock had stilled. He wasn’t surprised about that happening, though he was worried that Sherlock might have gone catatonic. He had an unrelenting iron grip on John’s hip, as John continued to push back incrementally. Tentatively, John suggested, “It, ah, it feels better if you move a bit, as well.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Sherlock came back to himself and began to thrust again. Now John held still, and let Sherlock give it to him, adjusting only to aim the strokes nearer his sweet spot. Sherlock was perfectly silent, leaving plenty of space for John’s coos and gasps of pleasure to fill the room.

Sherlock’s rhythm did not falter when put his lips to John’s ear and said softly, “What does it feel like? To have me inside you?”

“It feels like we’re making love,” John blurted. “Oh God, I can’t believe I said that. It’s...it’s like my most secret guilty pleasure. When everything’s quiet and slow, and you’re just wrapping your limbs around each other and whispering to each other. I know it’s not the sort of thing a bloke is supposed to say -- _oh_ \-- but I think making love is more intense than fucking.” John covered his face with his hands. “I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud. I’ve never told anyone this. God, what are you doing to me?”

Sherlock kept his smooth, regular pace, not missing a stroke, but the whole experience suddenly became quite different for him. It occurred to him that a few minutes ago, John had been nervous, stumbling over his words, treating this like the strange and awkward situation it was. But now that he was getting precisely the pleasure he’d instructed Sherlock to give him, John had momentarily become not only articulate but, indeed, extremely candid.

John seemed to be aware of this, as well, and tried to move the focus off himself to avoid any more embarrassment. “What does it feel like for you?” he asked.

“I like touching your insides,” Sherlock said after some thought. “I can’t imagine anything more intimate.”

Then they were quiet for a while, or rather, Sherlock was quiet, continuing to thrust and listening to John’s soft grunts. Finally, he said, “How long does this go on?”

“You’re not bored, are you?”

On the contrary, Sherlock was fascinated by what was going on. In fact, he had been since he’d walked in on John in the bath, a fortnight before. John was like a matryoshka doll: Sherlock had opened him up only to discover there was another one inside, and he felt the thrill of anticipation, wondering if yet another one awaited him, if he continued to investigate.

But he felt it prudent to keep that to himself. Instead, he said, “What were my options before?”

“Your what? Oh, er, you could lie on your back. Or you could pound away at me --”

“That. I want to do that.”

“Your wish.” With great reluctance, John pulled himself away, allowing Sherlock’s cock to slip out of him. They both uttered little bereft noises. John rolled onto his elbows and knees, tilting his head to indicate that Sherlock should get behind him. When Sherlock’s stiff, glistening cock passed by his line of sight, John muttered, “God yeah,” half to himself. “Put that magnificent prick back inside me.”

It already felt very different, just being behind John. More animal. Sherlock took hold of John’s hip with one hand and aimed himself with the other. 

“Don’t start going at it right away,” John said. “It’s going to be a bit different from this angle. Get a feel for it first.” Despite his inexperience, John had already decided that Sherlock was a great fuck. He did exactly what John told him to do, and could establish and maintain whatever cadence or effort was demanded of him. “That’s it. Nice and slow. Get me good and wanting it.” 

Sherlock remained silent. John said, “Are you alright back there? How are you feeling?” More silence. “Do you think you might be able to come?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock’s answer lacked emotion. He was not overly concerned about whether he could come. He wanted to hear more of what John had to say.  He asked, “Do you like doing it this way?”

John made a rumbling sound, deep in his throat, before admitting, “Oh, yeah. It feels so amazing, I don’t know why. I’ll take it any way, but nothing makes me come like getting worked like this, when I’m on my hands and knees.”

Sherlock smiled, slightly. He wanted to hear more. “You just really like cock,” he prompted.

“Yeah, I do. I like it in my mouth, too. Mmm, when you were in my mouth…” John began to push back, and Sherlock followed John’s lead. “Oh god, oh yes. I wanted this so bad. You’re a genius at everything, I knew you’d be a genius at fucking me.”

Sherlock felt a twinge at hearing that. There was a new feeling creeping up on him now. He wanted to tell John about it, but he couldn’t articulate it, except possibly to change his answer to John’s previous question from “I don’t know.” He was trying to keep things going smoothly, to anticipate possible outcomes, so he asked, “When I ejaculate...do I do that inside you?”

John groaned. Sherlock was going to make him come just by asking naïve questions. “Yes. Just keep doing what you’re doing, and that’s what will happen.”

“What about you?”

“I am really fucking close, alright? Just please keep doing what you’re doing, exactly where you’re doing it.”

Sherlock complied, working himself smoothly but relentlessly in and out of John’s eager, unresisting body. John was yelling now. By listening carefully, Sherlock was soon able to match the changing pitch of each vocalisation to the different places he was touching inside John. Focusing, he managed to get John to make the highest tone, over and over, until it was nearly continuous. He felt a shift and had to adjust his angle; John’s upper body had dropped abruptly as he took one hand off the mattress to jerk himself. He was much more frantic and helpless now; having quit the yelling, he was now chanting “Fuck me, fuck me” under his breath. Obeying his orders, Sherlock kept up his brutal pace, and John cried out, “Oh, fuck, Sherlock, you’re making me come,” and slammed back hard as his cock finally erupted over his hand.

Suddenly, Sherlock began to feel very strange all over, like something was rolling around in his gut and his hips. The tip of his cock had become exquisitely sensitive. Oh, he had a vague memory of this feeling.

“Something’s happening. John. Something’s-- _John_.”

John was gasping for air, trying to regain his senses. “Just let it,” he panted. “Don’t tense up now. It’s happening, so let it.”

“I can’t. It’s too much.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Oh God. I can’t. _Oh_.”

“Sherlock, do what I say. Push up deep and put your spunk in me.”

Sherlock wanted so badly to make John happy. He rolled his hips and grabbed John’s arse and pushed and pushed, and it came; somehow the deep, warm tingle was sparked, and became an inferno. 

“John, I’m doing it,” he groaned.

Beneath him, John relaxed and sighed. “That’s it, my love, nice and deep inside me.”

Sherlock uttered a single, plaintive vowel. He could feel the hard spurts as they left him, each one weaker than the last but all of them hot and pleasant. Long after they were over, he continued to pump, hoping to provoke some more, they felt so good. But he was forced to give up, and fell forward as his muscles gave out. John, barely stronger than Sherlock at that moment, nearly collapsed under their weight. With his last modicum of strength, John slowly unbent his limbs and lowered himself to the bed, tilting slightly to one side so that Sherlock would roll off of him.

“John,” Sherlock panted. “I put it in you, like you told me.”

“Yes,” John said. “Well done.”

They lay side by side, Sherlock on his back and John on his front, both breathing hard, staring at nothing. John was quiet now, but there was still a lot of noise in Sherlock’s head; hammering in his ears, humming in his brain. Through the haze, he pondered how beautiful and ridiculous it was, that you could join your body with another person’s like that, and do what they had just done. “I have more questions for you,” he said.

“Fire away.” John said listlessly.

“First of all...It must hurt.”

“It’s sore, yeah, but not so terrible. And it’s, you know, it’s worth it.”

“I came inside you. What happens to that?”

“Oh, em, in a minute I’ll go to the toilet, and it pretty much gets taken care of then.”

“Ah.” John’s answers were somewhat informative, but not nearly as exciting or fascinating as the things he’d said when Sherlock had been inside him. It seemed hardly worth asking questions at this point.

“Anything else?” John prompted.

“That’s all for now,” Sherlock said. “I’ll have more for you later.”


End file.
